


A short story collection

by SteadyLittleSoldier



Series: CMBYN oneshots [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Army, Christmas fic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Kid Fic, Light Angst, Living Together, Love in the Time of Corona, M/M, Military, Nightmares, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post Mpreg, Quarantine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21959710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteadyLittleSoldier/pseuds/SteadyLittleSoldier
Summary: 1. A phone in an empty room goes to voicemail on Christmas day.2. Armie met Timmy just before he was deployed for six months. The next time he is on leave, he finds the world standing still, facing a pandemic. Timmy invites him to quarantine together in his flat.3. Doctor Garcia has news for Armie. Apparently, his ex-omega never had the abortion that he paid for three years ago.4. On a bright autumn day, Timmy wants to leave.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Series: CMBYN oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1457599
Comments: 68
Kudos: 110





	1. hey, I got your message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone in an empty room goes to voicemail on Christmas day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on the song 'Now' by Scott Alan. Performed by Jonathan Groff.
> 
> words in parentheses indicate actions. written in the style of a play but not really.... meh idk

_A phone on a wooden table in a dimly lit, empty room. It starts ringing. The air in the room unmoving. It goes to voicemail. A breathy sigh can be heard from the other side. After a moment, the man on the other side starts speaking._

Hey. How… how are you? I um… Are you there or...? I hope you get thi... I got your message that... you stopped by the apartment. You should have kept your keys, I wouldn’t have minded. Don’t worry about your things. You can leave them here… for one more day. _(pause)_ I don’t know how this happened. We were supposed to fix the heater. The room feels so much colder without you here. _(sigh)_ Armie, I don’t want this. I don't- Why can’t we just sit and talk this through? You didn't explain anything. I’m sure, I would have understood. I would have tried, I promise. You always understood things I never did, still don’t. I don’t understand this… I can’t sleep, Armie. I keep tossing and turning in bed all night expecting to find you there after every turn. I wa… I need you to come back home. Come back home to me now… It's been too long. It should be okay by now, right? _(Long pause)_ I hope you didn’t forget to wish your brother a happy birthday this Friday. I wanted to remind you like every year but I was… I can’t remember what I was doing Friday _(nervous laugh)_. But if you did forget, you can call him still. It’ll make him happy– But, I guess it’s okay. I'd sent a card from both of us. The day before Friday, there was no us… how was I to know? _(pause)_ Viktor sent me a thank you mail. I hope he didn’t make you talk to your mom again. But, don't hate her, Armie. Or did you decide to spend Christmas with your family this year now that… now that you don’t have to bring me? I hate that there is bad blood between you and your mother just because of me. I do hope you're with your family. Is that why you can't pick up the phone? I’m still here. Mom wanted me to spend the day there, but… I dunno. I’m fine here. I was actually hoping you’d come… come to get your things. I hate the thought that I missed you. I was just… getting grocery. _(pause)_ I lied. I wasn’t getting groceries. I went to Nick’s place. Thought you’d be there. Thought it would all be okay if we saw each other again. Like it always was. Every argument, every misunderstanding solved as soon as we looked at each other. We were so in love... Where are you staying? It’s okay if you don’t wanna tell me. I just desperately wanted to hold you, to see you at least… So I went to the library, sat at your favorite spot for… I don’t know how long. Nick gave me this number. I hope it's okay. Don’t worry about your clothes and stuff. I can maybe… pack them up. It’ll be easier on both of us, well… just for you. _(muted noise of pages turning)_ I dunno how to divide the books though. The first pages all read ‘Armie & Timmy’… _(soft sob)_ Armie… everything is falling apart, Armie. I don’t know what day it is, what time, I– I don’t know where to start. There are times that… times– I can’t– I can’t breathe sometimes… _(heavy breathing; long pause)_ So… I guess that’s it. Sorry for this message. Your bags will be waiting when you arrive. I’ll try not to be home. I’ll have to go to work anyway… that’s if I’m not sacked. I’ll leave the keys with Lucy downstairs. Or even if I am home, you can take the stuff and leave if you want. Don’t feel like you have to talk… I know how much you hate confrontations. Merry Christmas, sweetheart. I hope you’re doing well now.

_The call ends. Two beeps. A heavy sigh._


	2. Love in the Time of Corona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie met Timmy briefly just before he was deployed for six months. The next time he is on leave, he finds the world standing still, facing a pandemic. Timmy invites him to quarantine together in his flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I needed to write some tender loving...

Timmy has been toiling in front of his apartment door for about half an hour. He checked and double-checked all the stuff there: the spray bottle of disinfectant for the shoes and a bucket of soap water to dunk the mask and gloves in. Perhaps it was not wise, yet he could not think faster than his impulses of opening and closing the door every other minute.

The person he awaits is now officially seven minutes late but one can never trust the traffic here.

Then comes the bell. Timmy couldn’t hit the buzzer faster.

Armand stood before him, somehow taller than he remembers him to be. Or perhaps it was the uniform playing its tricks? A duffle bag slung over his shoulder, two masks concealing that handsome face. But his eyes say that he is smiling behind them – eyes of such an undecided blue that they seem to be changing shades even as they stand in greeting in the bright corridor.

Timmy, too, is smiling. Grinning like an idiot, love-struck, nervous, and hesitant. They are not yet close enough to be totally at ease with each other. And Timmy has waited to see him again for so long, that he doesn’t know what to do right now. What do you do when you finally get the thing you have been pining for for months after getting only a small taste of it that only makes you more starved? He osculates on the doorway, in his excitement, almost going in for a hug before he stops himself. Chuckles at his own idiocy.

Armand looks confusingly at the shoes he has taken off, not knowing what to do with them.

“Yeah, leave them outside, I’ll sanitize them. And the mask and gloves in there.” He points at the bucket of soap water.

He looks at him with his brows furrowed.

“I have a weird…” he shrugs nervously. “It’s weird. It's nothing. Just, put... yeah.”

He sanitizes them before disposing of them. That isn’t too crazy, is it?

Armand lets it go and tugs at the masks.

Timmy had only a handful of pictures of Armand on his phone from the four dates that they had been to. He has been staring at them for the past six months, sometimes drooling, often crying. Armand was a handsome man; there was no question about it. But Timmy has seen him only four times and has spent six months with the pictures. Now seeing this living, breathing, moving, multi-dimensioned Armand standing before him, taking up so much space, overwhelms Timmy’s senses. He’s so breathtakingly beautiful, the pictures do not do him justice. Timmy hate’s to admit that he had almost forgotten what he looked like in real life. He feels so real, so touchable – and this comes as a surprise for someone who is more accustomed to his pictures, as though discovering him anew. More than anything, he wants to touch him, feel his solid form beneath his palms, pull him in for a hug, but he cannot yet.

Timmy ushers him in, still smiling tentatively, not being able to stray his gaze off him for long, and leads him to the bathroom.

“I’ll need my–“

“Everything is in there, towels, razor, toothbrush, and stuff. All new. Not the towel, I mean...” says Timmy, moving his hands too much. “I’ll sanitize your bag while you’re in… so you can get your clothes out.”

Armie smiles, lips close, a little bloodless, eyes a little tired. “Thank you.”

He is so calm and collected while Timmy is a wreck. Timmy reminds himself that this is not nearly as nerve-wracking as firing a gun must be. Of course, he is calm. This is calming to him, this homely feeling. And this three-dates partner is perhaps somehow closer than the comrades he fights with. The sting and thrill of someone new, these little tantalizing stirrings that we revel in like addicts, these are soothing to his scarred soul – they do not tease him, they are pure and uncontaminated joy and familiarity, they bring him home and leave behind the machine that he must turn into.

Timmy’s left ear is pressed against the door of the bathroom. He realizes that this is creepy. So he stands back up straight and goes away to find something to kill time with. But he can’t stay away for long. He comes back and just stands in front of the closed door.

He listens to the faucet being turned off. It would probably be smarter to move away now. But he just shifts his weight from foot to foot nervously. When Armand comes out, it stuns him a bit and he takes a step back, looking up at him nervously, a little afraid. Armand leaves the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Clean-shaven with his hair dripping water droplets.

Timmy doesn’t know how to fight his impulse when he reaches forward and hugs Armand, his palms flat on his naked back, cheek resting again his the fluffy hair of his chest. Armand grumbles out an indulgent laugh and hugs him back, ruffles his hair, and presses his mouth against the curls and says, “it’s okay.”

“That’s my line.”

“Sure. But I’ve been doing this longer than you have.”

Timmy’s searching hands find the backrest of the bed, something to hold onto. He clutches on them for dear life as an unexpected long whine escapes his mouth. Armand spares fleeting glances up at Timmy’s contorting face, sucking on him as though he were hungry.

“Fuck… your mouth is so big…”

He sees Armand stifling his laughter with his cock as soon as the words leave his mouth. But it was true. Now Timmy is a little embarrassed. For saying that, yes, but also because it seems as though Armand has no trouble at all deep throating him. That would have indicated bad news for Timmy if what he had just told Armand wasn’t true. He touches Armand’s mouth where it is stretched around his cock and it thrills him. Timmy clutches his dirty blond hair for support, wishing it was longer, wishing his job didn’t require it to be shorter because it is soft and beautiful, and he finds no comfort there. Despite his rough looks, there is something gentle about everything that Armand does and everything that he is. What strength it must take to dwell between that contrast, what divine power, what goodness, what compassion and tenderness must he store in that broad chest of his. No wonder he sacrifices his life and youth for the greater good.

The room seems too bright. White curtains and white sheets. From where Timmy’s face is pressed against the soft pillows, he only sees the intruding sunrays let in by the disobedient curtains fluffing out. He hears only controlled huffs from above him – the sweetest sound, slaps of skin against skin, a kiss against the back of his neck, a soft touch of a rough hand, brushing away his hair. He knows what the hand is asking. He hums in reply. For someone who has just landed in town, reeking of attack and alert, Armand is the gentlest lover. It wasn’t he who had turned him around, Timmy turned in his own accord. It would seem Armand is generous with his mouth. He not only took care of his hard-on first, he gave his tongue freely to stretch him out. They are not close enough yet to rim each other, but somehow it did not matter. It felt as natural as the indecisive blue of Armand's eyes. He eased his way in, asking Timmy if he was okay, telling him to make him stop if he felt like it – the talks almost made the magic of spontaneity wear off. Armand only spears huffs after that. He is oddly quiet while Timmy is a mewling mess.

The next time Armand talks, he is pulling out. He taps on Timmy’s shoulder. “Turn around, turn around,” says Armand, out of breath. Timmy obeys and Armand emerges from the bright rays, among clouds. Adonis, Achilles, God. His penetrating eyes come closer to him as he rests his elbows on each side of Timmy’s torso. Two fingers wrapping themselves with the wet locks of hair lying on his forehead and put them away. He knows he wanted to see his eyes. Softly, he presses kisses on his cheek, the swollen muscle beside his nose, his eyelids, his temple as he lifts one of his legs up to get inside him again. The surprise of intruding pleasure in this moment of serenity almost makes him come and he throws his head back, crying out. Armand finds his long bare neck.

Timmy is gathering Armand in his arms. “Shh… it’s okay, it’s okay. Shh…” he finds himself whispering with a frowned face. Armand’s head barely fits in the crook of his neck, his body a comforting weight over Timmy’s. His hair at the nape of his neck is softer than it is everywhere else. Timmy keeps brushing them, running them through his supple fingers. His other hand runs soothing circles on the long expanse of his bare back as Armand’s sobs get caught in the chasm of Timmy’s shoulder and neck.

It caught them both off guard. One moment Armand was on the verge of reaching his peak, face becoming more beautiful in the transformation of ecstasy, the next his mouth opened to let out a stifled and disturbing cry. Only after hiding his face did he let go. His cries break Timmy’s heart. They come out with all the wind in his lungs and don’t seem to stop. Timmy doesn’t know what else to do except soothe him.

…

“Did you lose weight?”

“Do I look skinnier?”

“I think so. Been working hard?” says Armand, caressing his concave yet soft belly. tanned hand against smooth pale skin.

“No, not really. I eat junk all day. You can actually see a pouch when I'm sitting. Been staying home, so…”

Armand bites his lower lip, listening to Timmy ramble about what he does all day, how behind on schoolwork he is, how unemployed and dependent on his parents he is. “I keep forgetting how beautiful you are," he says all of a sudden. "And then I need to see you again and again and it hits me all over again.”

Timmy puts a palm over his face. “Stop…” he whines.

“You think my mouth’s too big?”

“Not too big. Just the right size.” Timmy hides his face against his chest, laughing. “I can’t be cool around you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For losing my shit on you like that earlier.”

“You can do that,” says Timmy, lips moving against naked skin. “You can do that and then some. Was that because I called you Armie?”

Armand shakes his head.

“I know you don’t like that. It won’t happen again, I promise. It just slipped.”

“I try. I really try to leave everything behind when I come back. The war, the fighting, the killing, watching friends die. Compartmentalize, you know. And mostly I do fine. But it comes out with every outburst of intense emotion. Like I can never be utterly happy without being painfully sad. It’s as though the intensity of every emotion resides in one muscle. And then I realize that I’m here having a good time while someone else in my place is fighting out there, right this instant perhaps, maybe getting shot at, maybe dying.”

Timmy looks up at him. “Do you see a therapist?”

“I’m fine for now I think.”

“Promise me you’ll ask for one before it gets too much in here,” he says, touching his forehead with the tip of his pointer finger.

“Were you waiting for me?”

“What, you think that’s what I did all day? Sitting and moping around, thinking about you?”

Armand chuckles with his tongue between his teeth.

“If you did, you would be right. I counted every second.”

“Did it get frustrating?”

“Not so much frustrating as… sad, I dunno. I was worried. A lot. I told myself there was nothing my worrying would do but that didn’t help. Then I was excited as the days came nearer. Also more nervous. And then I was afraid that it wouldn’t be the same… between us, I mean. When we met last time, it was so good, you know. But it was just so few days, I thought six months might be too much. And you had to go through… so much shit. That’s oughtta change things. What if you had forgotten me, you know. Or didn’t want it anymore.”

“It’s just that I can’t imagine what it’s like to wait for someone. I mean what happens to me is kind of in my hands.”

“We don’t have any control here. We can’t help you. We wouldn’t even know…”

“If it gets frustrating, if you feel like spending time with someone…”

“I do spend time with people. I have a ton of friends.”

“You know what I mean. I want you to know that you have no reason to bind yourself. I’m fine with that. We don’t need to be exclusive. You’re too young to be an army wife. We've spent too little time together for that.”

Timmy frowns. “But I don’t want to be with anyone else.”

“I know. But if you ever do.”

“Do you have anyone… there?”

Armand gives out a big belly laugh, turning onto his back. “It’s not really a place where you can find romance. Nor are you in the mood. Your brain doesn’t have any space to seek pleasure. It only makes room for strategies.”

“Sex doesn’t always need romance.”

“True.” Armand sits up. “Wait,” he says and walks to the small reading table where Timmy put the things he found in his pocket after sanitizing them while Timmy appreciates the view from behind. He finds what he was looking for and brings it to bed. “I guess you’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”

Smiling, Timmy nods and sits up. Armand hands him a small laminated picture of him and sits down beside him.

“I didn’t wanna show it to you when I got it. Thought it might scare you away.”

“Where did you take the picture from?”

“That day you took me to the beach.”

“Our second date, yeah”

“Yeah. I took it on my phone”

Timmy leans in for a kiss and receives a languid one.

“You’re so beautiful, so unreal,” says Armand, his palm cupping Timmy’s face. His voice heavy with gravity and sincerity. “Out there, you felt so otherworldly. Like an instance of twilight or the pink in the dark sky just before dawn, there but only lasting for a moment, leaving with no traces of its existence, leaving one feeling like they’d imagined it. Like something that’s impossible to coexist with me, in the same world that I live in because my world is all grabbles, bullets, and stifling tents.” He shakes his head as though he could not believe he was here now or that he was saying this. “Sometimes in the middle of it all, I take it out and look at it and I feel like I’ve made you up in my dreams. Then I realize, my dreams can’t conjure up something so beautiful.”

Timmy’s face falls. A wrinkle appears between his eyebrows. “You’re scaring me.”

Armand smiles. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Timmy falls onto his face and kisses him until he makes sure Armand can feel the solid being that he is against him, pulling him out of this daze because he is _here_ now. They don’t have the luxury of wasting time on their dreams of seeing each other again because they _are_ seeing each other _now_. Timmy feels him relax in his arms. “Are you hungry?”

Armand shrugs. “I ate on the plane.”

“I need some groceries. Wanna come with me? I wanna make you fried apple pies.”

…

“Urgh, I think I’m out of maple syrup,” says Timmy. They are already on the line.

“I’ll get it.”

Before Timmy can refuse, Armand is headed to the right section.

It takes him a second but he realizes someone is staring at him. He looks to his left. A child of approximately five years stands, staring at him.

“Honey, you gotta back up a little,” he says. The kid is too close. He is a good enough sport to listen to the adult and backs away two steps. “That’s it.”

“Do you need money?” he says out of nowhere.

Timmy chuckles. Kids are so weird. “I wouldn’t be standing here if I did, would I?”

“Do you need clothes? My mom donates clothes.”

“Kid, I’m not homeless. Thank you, though.”

“Were you in an accident?”

“No.” He looks down at his ripped jeans. “It’s the way it came.”

“What happened to your shirt?”

He looks down at the sliver of his pale belly peeking out. “It’s a crop top. It’s... fashion.” He shrugs.

“But it looks funky.”

“Yeah, y’know, some people like to look funky.”

The kid thinks for a second, looks down at his polo and khaki pants. “Do I look weird to you then?”

“No, you look great.”

A man comes from the front of the line and grasps the kid’s hand. “What are you doing talking to a str–“ He then takes a look at Timmy, eyes him up and down. “Stay away from my kid.”

Timmy’s eyes widen in panic. “I didn’t–“

The man is about to go back to his place but then-

“Hey, what did you just say?” comes Armand’s low voice.

“Thank you for your service,” says the kid with a salute before he is dragged away.

Armand’s flaring eyes follow the man. He looks ready to jump him as the man keeps taking furtive glances at him, definitely feeling threatened.

“Stop staring,” says Timmy. “I said stop staring.

“What happened?”

“Nothing."

"Timmy."

"The kid was just interested in my jeans. Can I borrow your jacket? The fucking AC in this place...”

Armand takes off his jacket he was wearing and gives it to Timmy who wraps his torso in the huge jacket, hiding his body, himself from view.

…

“What’re you gonna do after college?”

“I think I might go into research,” says Timmy. “I don’t know. I’m definitely continuing to work for charities. I feel the need to give back or something. I don’t think I’d be able to sleep if I ever stopped. So in a way, it’s selfish. Does that sound pretentious?”

“No, that sounds wonderful.”

…

Armand is the one who is supposed to be tired but against the warmth of his body, Timmy dozes off curled like a cat. Armand picks him up like he weighs nothing more than a rag doll and carries him to bed. Apparently, waking up to somebody lifting you up is not a pleasant feeling. Timmy feels like someone has taken him up in the sky and just decided to drop him from there without a parachute. Timmy jerks but recovers quickly as he feels strong arms underneath him, sees the strong jaw of Armand from where his head rests on his bicep. If he weren’t so sleepy, he would have turned red. “What are you doing?” he mumbles. “What time is it?”

“Go back to sleep. It’s okay.” He puts him down on the bed and tucks him in. Brushes his hair until he falls asleep, which takes no more than two strokes.

When Timmy wakes up, it is to intermittent jerks, coming from the sleeping figure beside him. He is confused at first, then watches as Armand half-wakes up with every jerk and his heavy lids drop down the next second. It happens twice more before Timmy caresses his chest, murmurs against his shoulder, and, holding him, falls back to sleep.

The next time he wakes up, Armand is nowhere to be seen. His pillow is gone too. Is he on the sofa? Could he not sleep with someone else on the bed with him? Timmy gets off the bed to check the sofa but finds Armand lying on the carpet just beside the bed. He is topless and from the looks of it, maybe a little cold. Timmy gets his own pillow and blanket and covers Armand with half of it. It wakes him up but he doesn’t open his eyes. He smiles lazily. “You can go to bed, Timmy, it’s okay,” he slurs.

“I wanna sleep with you.” He snuggles under the cover against Armand who takes him in his arms.

“It’s just the bed. I keep slipping in my sleep. It’s like I’m sleeping on the clouds.”

“We can get one of those mattresses that you can adjust the sleeping number of. You know the fancy ones. Tomorrow if you like.”

“They’re too expensive.”

“I can afford it.”

“I’m only here for two weeks, Tim.”

Timmy stares at his closed eyes. _Where is your home?_ Timmy wants to ask. Does that mean he was at home on the battlefield, on the base, barrack? But that is impossible. Did he not know what it felt to be home, to come home? Was that why he was so calm and comfortable because, without a home to draw a comparison with, everything seems comfortable.

He finds himself on the bed the next morning, (Armand has got to stop carrying him around, but then again, he kinda loves it) and his first instinct is to look for Armand. Of course, he is not in the room. He finds him in the kitchen, on his laptop. Timmy strides into the kitchen in only his boxers, kisses the top of Armand’s head (his hair smells amazing, which means he has already showered), gets cereal and milk from the fridge, and slumps down on the chair beside him.

“Do you want me to make you something? Coffee, tea?”

“No, I’ll get it myself. You chill. You need to rest.”

Armand gets up anyway. “It’s no problem. I like to work.” And he goes for the coffee, guessing Timmy is _that_ guy. And he is correct.

“Did you have breakfast?”

“Yeah. And I got one of those fancy looking teabags you have there, hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all.”

“Coffee fucks up my sleep schedule.”

“When did you get up?”

Armand shrugs, turning the machine on. “Around six-thirty.”

He looks at the clock. It was almost ten am. “Are you kidding me? You need to go back to bed _right now.”_

Armand chuckles. “I got enough sleep.”

“You’re on holiday, Armand, go to bed.”

“I can’t. I can’t sleep for more than six hours at once. I think I got an extra half hour today so that’s good.”

“Well, at least try to fall back asleep.”

“I can’t stay in bed when I’m awake.”

Timmy falls silent in realization. It seems too much of a luxury. Staying quiet, doing nothing, must bring back things to the blackened vision of the mind.

But as they make lunch, Timmy notices the dark circles under Armand’s eyes as he attentively cuts tomatoes in thin slices. “You need to sleep.”

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

“I’ll help.”

After lunch, Timmy gently touches Arman’s hair. Blowing gentle air. Lulling him to sleep. They are in bed; Armand lies facing him as he sits leaning against the headrest and notices that Armand is not a deep sleeper. He keeps waking up every ten to twenty minutes, holds Timmy’s thigh like a body pillow, and buries his face on his side. Timmy reads Plato's Symposium.

“This is nice,” comes Arman’s sleep-heavy voice after a while. “I like feeling lazy.”

“That’s 'cause you’re new to it. Once you get used to it, you’ll hate it but you won’t do anything about it.”

“When does it stop? I mean do you have a plan that doesn’t involve this? I bet you have something figured out.”

Armie only hums. "Active duty," says but doesn’t explain, goes back to sleep. Timmy has a feeling that this is not something Armand wants a way out of. This _is_ his life. It is not a trap that he endures.

_‘And if there were only some way of contriving that a state or an army should be made up of lovers and their loves, they would be the very best governors of their own city… and when fighting at each other’s side, although a mere handful, they would overcome the world. For what lover would not choose rather to be seen by all mankind than by his beloved, wither when abandoning his post or throwing away his arms? He would be ready to die a thousand deaths rather than endure this. Or who would desert his beloved or fail him in the hour of danger? The veriest cowards would become an inspired hero, equal to the bravest, at such a time; Love would inspire him.'_

“Thank god I’m not in the army,” Timmy mutters to himself

Armand pulls back and looks up at him in surprise. A crease between his eyebrows. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Timmy,” Armand warns.

“It’s just this stupid book, it says–”

“Don’t even ever think about it.”

“Okay.”

“Timmy,” he warns again.

“Okay! I promise. Jeez. Do you even know me?”

…

“I don’t understand it. You don’t even like the president, right?”

Armand chuckles. “The president is not the country.”

“This is bullshit, though. This is manmade and brainless. These boundaries we’ve created that we call countries, what value does it have really?”

“Very nihilist of you,” he teases.

“There are other ways to help, to contribute. Other more civilized, smarter ways. This is just dumb.”

“I’m not gonna explained it to you again, Timmy. I don’t want to waste time because I have very little of that with you.”

“But I don’t _understand._ Help me to. What can make a person sacrifice everything? Life, family, youth. We have very little time on Earth. Don’t you feel the years slipping through your fingers? I certainly do. I don’t understand it.”

“You don’t have to. You understand what _you_ do and you do it amazingly. And that’s enough.”

Timmy wraps his hands around his torso, burying his face in the soft material of his shirt.

Armand kisses his hair, engulfing his whole body with his. “I knew it would be too much. You’re so young.”

“Shut up,” says Timmy, knowing that Armand was younger than he is when he enlisted. Timmy feels warm liquid turning Armand’s grey shirt darker. “I’m sorry I’m wasting your time like this.” 

Armand shakes his head. “No, it’s not wasting time. We're getting to know each other.” He pulls back, rubs Timmy’s tears away gently with his thumbs, and smiles. “I have to go see my mom next Tuesday.”

“How long?”

Armand kisses his forehead. “I’ll be back on Friday. Then we have the whole weekend. It’ll be fun.”

“Then you go back on Monday.”

“Don’t think about that now. If we spend our time together thinking about when we’re to separate again, then we’re just wasting time and it will drive me insane.”

“I just…I just can’t think about…”

“You don’t have to. Nothing’s gonna happen to me, I promise.”

“How can you promise that?”

“I have someone to come home to now.”

* * *

_the end_


	3. From Last Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Garcia has news for Armie. Apparently his ex-omega never had the abortion that he paid for three years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the movie Inside Llewyn Davis.
> 
> A/B/O
> 
> Check end notes for trigger warnings if you're worried but there's nothing graphic here.

**TUESDAY. Morning.**

_Armie’s phone rings as soon as he turns it on. He picks up._

FLORA: What the fuck happened to your phone? I’ve been trying for days.

ARMIE: ( _resigned)_ I just… my charger wasn’t working.

FLORA: Why wouldn't you just buy another one?

ARMIE: Do I need to remind you every week that I’m broke? It’s exhausting. Fuck, Flora. _(He takes a deep breath.)_ And it’s not like you don’t know where I live.

FLORA: I’m not stepping into that rathole.

ARMAND: What’s so important?

FLORA: I’m pregnant.

ARMIE: _(Armie stay silent for a bit too long.)_ What the fuck!

FLORA: You tell me, you son of a bitch.

**TUESDAY. Evening.**

_A café._

_FLORA orders a cappuccino and the barista awaits ARMIE’s order._

ARMIE: I’m fine, thank you.

FLORA: _(she glares at him.)_ It’s like three dollars.

ARMIE: I don't want coffee.

_FLORA pays and they head to a table._

FLORA: You know, you should wear double condoms. Or better yet, stop fucking altogether. No self-respecting beta, or omega for that matter, would want your kid. How are you an alpha, I don’t get it. Even that Victorian orphan didn’t want your gene in him.

ARMIE: Yes, okay. _(He raises his hand to stop her.)_ You sure it’s mine?

FLORA: How could I?

ARMIE: But you don’t want it anyway?

FLORA: No, I want it if it’s Nick's. I don’t want your kid. But I don’t wanna risk it.

ARMIE: You want a baby?

FLORA: No, I want Nick’s baby. And yes, I want a family with him. That’s why you marry people, to make a family.

ARMIE: So Nick doesn’t know.

FLORA: Of course, Nick doesn’t know. Which means you have to pay for it.

ARMIE: Okay.

FLORA: And you’re getting the appointment. And soon. I don’t want to have to go through the shitty parts of pregnancy just to end up getting it out. And Nick can’t know.

ARMIE: I know a guy.

FLORA: A guy? God, I hope he’s a doctor.

ARMIE: He is.

FLORA: ( _monotonously)_ Don’t tell Nick. Obviously.

ARMIE: I wouldn’t do that to him. He’s the only one who’s been getting me gigs lately.

_FLORA stares at him, her mouth twisted with disgust as she shakes her head._

* * *

**FRIDAY. Noon.**

_DOCTOR GARCIA’s chamber._

GARCIA: She’ll need someone to be here to pick her up.

ARMIE: She wouldn’t want me here.

GARCIA: There has to be someone, Armie. I'm sorry. It’s our policy.

ARMIE: I… okay, I’ll talk to her.

_(Armie pulls out his battered wallet. Two ten-dollar bills, a fifty-dollar bill and a couple of changes lay there. Perhaps the good doctor will let him pay the rest when he gets another gig – which he no idea when’ll happen. This is all he has to go by until then. But before he can say anything, the doctor opens his mouth.)_

GARCIA: Oh, you don’t have to pay this time.

ARMIE: I don’t actually–

GARCIA: It’s from last time.”

ARMIE: From last time?

GARCIA: The omega you made an appointment for last time.

ARMIE: _(confused)_ That was like three years ago.

GARCIA: Yes, it’s from that time.

ARMIE: What’s from– What do you mean?

GARCIA: Well, I didn’t know how to contact you. The information on the form was the omega’s and he refused to talk to us after. I wanted your number.

ARMIE: Why?

GARCIA: Refund. It’s our policy.

ARMIE: Refund. Why’d you…? What are you saying?

GARCIA: _(The doctor takes off his glasses and sighs.)_ You don’t know, do you?

ARMIE: Know what?

GARCIA: He didn’t go through with the abortion. I instructed him to collect the fee from the front desk but he never did. And then we couldn’t reach you. So you don’t have to pay this time. _(He stops to give Armie time to say something. When Armie doesn’t, he continues.)_ He didn’t tell you.

_ARMIE shakes his head._

GARCIA: He asked me to suggest an affordable doctor for the delivery.

_ARMIE nodded, his head heavy._

**FRIDAY. Night.**

_A woman opens the door to find Armie standing before her._

PAULINE: Can I help you?

ARMIE: You’re Paula.

PAULINE: Pauline.

ARMIE: Pauline, yes, sorry. Is Timothée home?

PAULINE: _(Her brows furrow.)_ Timothée doesn’t live with me anymore. Are you a friend?

ARMIE: Um, yeah, sort of. I’m Armie... Armand

PAULINE: _You’re_ Armie? I think Timmy mentioned you a couple of times. Thought he was pulling my leg, to be honest. _(She laughs.)_ Name’s a bit ridiculous, isn't it?

ARMIE: ( _seemingly uncomfortable_ ) Can I have his new address?

**FRIDAY. Night.**

_The door opens to a bright smiling face. But as soon as the emerald eyes recognize the person at the door, the smile retraces._

TIMMY: You…

_The sound of stumping feet follow the indifferent utterance, and a tiny blonde head wedges itself between TIMMY and the door that he instinctively held close. Now ocean blue eyes stares up at ARMIE. A smile slipps through him before he can control it. The child is the spitting image of his._

TIMMY: This is...

_When ARMIE looks back up at Timmy, he knows. He knows that ARMIE knows. Just from the way he can’t stop staring at the child._

ARMIE: I need to talk to you.

TIMMY: _(he peers inside distractedly)_ It’s not a good time. We’re having a dinner pa–“

 _An unfamiliar male voice came from the inside. “_ Is it Josh? Get him in.”

TIMMY: It’s not… it’s not Josh. _(Still somewhat dazed, and… scared.)_

_Footsteps follow and ARMIE was met with an unknown face looking at him, trying to place where he had seen ARMIE before._

SURAJ: Hello _(he says through a frown.)_

TIMMY: _(timidly)_ This is… it’s Armand. Old friend.

SURAJ: _(smiles politely.)_ Oh, hi _. (He offers a hand.)_ I’m Suraj. Nice to meet you.

_ARMIE takes his hand. He doesn’t have to say who he is to TIMMY. ARMIE can tell. It doesn’t hurt any less now than it did when he left him._

_SURAJ picks up the child._

SURAJ: Please, come in. Join us for dinner.

TIMMY: No… _(he doesn’t open the door fully still)_ It’s… we don’t have enough… chairs…

SURAJ: _(visibly embarrassed)_ Honey… I’ll get another chair from the living room, it’s no problem. Ask your friend in.

ARMIE: No, please. I won’t be here long. I just need to talk to Timothée for a minute.

SURAJ: Don’t be put off by Timmy’s… he doesn’t–

ARMIE: It’s alright, really. I need to head back soon anyway.

SURAJ: _(smiling apologetically)_ Well, come inside and talk then. It’s really cold outside. _(_

_SURAJ walks back inside with the child._

_TIMMY still won’t open the door fully._

TIMMY: What’d you want?

ARMIE: I need to see him.

TIMMY: No.

ARMIE: Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to have a problem with me getting in.

TIMMY: Husband.

ARMIE: I don’t care.

TIMMY: You can’t–

ARMIE: I just need to see him, okay? I’ll leave after, I promise.

_TIMMY stares at the dining room from where ARMIE can only hear a hubbub. Then, slowly, he stands back._

_Armie stepps inside and looks around. Open floor. The dining room softly lit. Smell of home-cooked meal wafting over to the door. And then, the living room. A corner scattered with toys and blocks and lego. In their midst sits the toddler, playing alone, stacking one block over another, paying them no mind. Armie takes a step towards him and is stopped immediately._

TIMMY: Shoes off. They’re wet.

_ARMIE looks down at his muddy shoes. He doesnn’t have winter boots, and have stepped on too many puddles to feel his feet anymore. He is sure his nails are blue or even black at this point. He toes off his shoes to reveal his wet socks. Embarrassed under the watchful eyes of his ex-boyfriend, he takes the socks off as well._

_He kneels down before the child and rubs the back of his pointer figure against the warm rosy cheek._

ARMIE: _(with a serene smile on his face)_ He’s mine, isn’t he?

TIMMY: No.

_ARMIE looks up at TIMMY who has nothing to offer but contempt in his eyes._

ARMIE: Well, he’s certainly not your Suraj’s.

TIMMY: He’s mine. He's mine and nobody else’s.

ARMIE: Why didn’t you tell me?

TIMMY: And what, be stuck with you, living hand to mouth with a kid for the rest of our lives? No, thank you. I didn’t want you for his father, Armie.

ARMIE: I wouldn’t have forced you to stay. We were already– _(He stops as he sees SURAJ approaching them.)_

SURAJ: Come on, honey, your food’s getting cold _. (His gaze falls on Armie and the child who is on his lap now.)_ You’re welcome to join… _(He stops, his eyes darting from the child to Armie, back and forth. Armie sees the similar contempt covering that welcoming face now as realization dawns upon him.)_

ARMIE: I should leave.

_Nobody protests to that. He doesn’t know what he wanted to achieve from this visit or if he wanted to achieve anything at all. In the state he has been living for years now, he needs to decide everything after a perfect analysis. But this whim… he didn’t think of anything else since the doctor told him the news. Now he can think of nothing else but those big blue eyes that didn’t know him, that passively sat on his lap without any reaction, that smelled like Timmy but also like his own self, that was beautiful, something that is his but he has lost. Life could have been different if only he knew. He used to think nothing could come before music to him. How thoroughly wrong he was. He rubs the moisture away that blurs his vision. He needs to see the road clearly in this winter night as he prepares himself for the hour long walk back home._

* * *

**SATURDAY. Afternoon.**

_A bar. FLORA is sitting on a stool behind the counter, smoking. The bar is almost empty except for two gentlemen who are content with their beer for now. She curses lazily when she sees ARMIE entering the bar with his guitar slung over his shoulder._

FLORA: I can't get you free drinks anymore.

ARMIE: I don’t want any.

FLORA: Then what the fuck do you want?

ARMIE: Nothing. I was just in the area… How are you doing?”

FLORA: _(Her features soften a little.)_ Good.

ARMIE: Did it go okay?

FLORA: What– I’m doing it this Monday, asshole. Can’t even bother to remember that.

ARMIE: Right, it’s… it’s Sunday.

FLORA: It’s Saturday!

ARMIE: Right, sorry. Saturday. I just… I did something… it just seemed like a long time had passed but apparently not.

FLORA: This doesn't suit you anymore.

ARMIE: What?

FLORA: This tortured artist image. You're too old for it now.

ARMIE: I'm not a tortured artist. 

FLORA: Get a job and go see a doctor for your self-indulgent depression.

_ARMIE laughs._

FLORA: I'm serious, Armie. This can't go on. Nick's worried. You don't have to spend a miserable life just because Mike couldn't find happiness.

ARMIE: Don't bring him up.

FLORA: See? You do need help.

ARMIE: It's not about that. Music is the only thing I know. I can't imagine doing anything else. And I don't just do it for a living.

FLORA: Yeah, you don't. You think you can keep a part of him alive this way.

ARMIE: Just... just let me know how it goes, yeah?

FLORA: Okay.

ARMIE: You’re not telling Nick though, right?

FLORA: You fucking… I can’t believe I let you fuck me. I’m having a fucking abortion, probably losing a perfectly fine baby of Nick’s that I actually want and you’re still thinking about the gigs you might miss if Nick finds out that you were fucking his wife behind his back.

ARMIE: Have you heard of the phrase ‘takes two to tango’?

FLORA: Get out.

* * *

**SUNDAY. Night.**

_ARMIE’s phone rings. The caller id on the phone makes him do a double take. He sits up on his bed which is just a futon on the floor before answering._

ARMIE: Did you accidentally dial my number?

TIMMY: No… I wanted… I wanted to apologize for being so rude to you that day. You didn’t deserve that. You just caught me by surprise.

ARMIE: But I did deserve it.

TIMMY: How are you? _(He says as though he actually cares to know.)_

ARMIE: I’m fine. Are you?

TIMMY: I’m more than fine. _(There is a smile in his voice.)_

_A moment of silence passes._

TIMMY: He looks so much like you when he sleeps.

ARMIE: What’s his name?

TIMMY: Marc. After my dad. I miss them. Everyday.

ARMIE: They’d have loved him if they were alive, I'm sure.

TIMMY: Do you wanna see him?

ARMIE: …Yeah.

_ARMIE looks at his phone. TIMMY has turned on the video. He sees baby MARC sleeping on TIMMY’s lap. His cheek pressed against TIMMY’s chest, his long lashes casting shadows over his soft skin. A silent tear rolls down ARMIE’s cheek._

TIMMY: You can come see him again if you want. When Suraj isn’t home. He doesn’t… He didn’t appreciate… He doesn’t feel…

ARMIE: You don’t–

TIMMY: I did love you, you know.

_A moment passes._

ARMIE: _(dejected)_ You were ashamed of me. Didn’t even tell your sister about me.

TIMMY: Doesn’t mean I didn’t love you.

ARMIE: You didn’t have to go through this alone. I should have been there.

_TIMMY sighs._

ARMIE: I would have left all this, you know. For you. I would have gotten a job somewhere. We could've had something together. If you’d only told me that you wanted the baby.

TIMMY: Yes, you would stop playing at bars. You'd stop trying to get another contract. You’d get a waiter’s job or something. I would have the baby. Then I would go back to playing minor characters in some hole in the wall theatre, 'cause that's where I'd still be without Suraj’s influence. We would drown in bills, run out of formula, live off scraps. Nothing but the smell of molds to keep us company. And Mike’s ghost hovering over us. The emptiness in your chest growing until you would start hating me, hating the baby. Blaming us for losing your promising career in music. And I would start hating you in return. We would stop giving a damn about our family and live a sickly life until we couldn’t anymore and the GWB would start beckoning us like it did to Mike. Or you would leave, or I would. Doesn’t matter. Marc would end up having some sort of behavioral disorder. We would continue to be miserable. Nobody can really leave their past behind; you always have it hanging on your shoulder. It’s just something people say so they don’t die of depression. So, don’t regret this, Armie. It wouldn’t have ended well. I loved you once. But I am happy now. I love Suraj and I love my family. I love my job. I have everything I could ask for. And you have your music and no one to blame. It couldn’t have gotten any better, only worse.

**SUNDAY. Almost midnight.**

_ARMIE is sitting alone on the futon. Moonlight streams through the tiny and only window of the room. From the corner of the room, he pulls a box towards himself. It is filled with vinyl records. The same one, about fifty copies. They were given to him the last time he visited Mel's office because they couldn’t sell these anymore. ARMIE picks one out. A pair with guitars stare back at him from the cover. Himself and Mike. He has long before sold his record player. He has no use for it anymore._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Mention of suicide (of a minor character). Mention of abortion and depression.


	4. blessed are those who see and are silent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a bright autumn day, Timmy wants to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from This Is The Kit's song _Bashed Out_

**October 11, 2020**

Silence is the complete absence of sound. In actuality, silence is the need for words floating in the air. Birds don’t stop chirping, the cool breeze doesn’t halt its course, the trees don’t stop their rustling, the distant sound of murmuring water doesn’t care about silence. And there comes this silence after the declaration.

The silence is the sudden emergence of a dark cloud on this brilliant day. Except there are no clouds in the sky and the silence is out of place. But then again, why must nature match with the wrangling of minds?

No, the words do not echo. Not in his mind, not in the house.

The house, wrapped in green from all sides, is open, sluttishly letting all the light in.

“Why?”

Armie looks for that telltale echo that you are supposed to find in your mind, those cruel words bouncing around in your head. But he can’t find them. He hasn’t misheard, he is sure. But it’s a cloud on a balmy day. _I’m leaving._ It came out of nowhere and now looms over him like Death awaiting his silent surrender. He stands with the laundry basket in his hands. “Why?” he asks. In the middle of the living room. The basket heavy in his hand. But he has just promised to listen to Timmy, _actually_ listen to him. The first thing he complained about today was the dirty laundry scattered everywhere. Armie stopped the things he was doing and started with the laundry right away, both his own and Timmy’s, collecting them while mentally listing the things Timmy mentioned last night – he would look into all that today.

Timmy stares. With one hand, he kneads the back of the sofa as he stands behind it. There is that cloud again, that silence. But the heartless birds, the cruel wind, the callous branches – they go on. Armie could strangle the birds with his bare hands, could burn the trees, the wind would help. But now, now he wants nothing more than to reverse every step he has taken in the last five years. Anything to make him take those words back.

“I’m not happy.”

But Armie remembers him smiling just last night before he lost his temper. He knew him inside and out. He has known him for seven years. Two as a friend, five as his everything. That smile was genuine. But now Armie questions himself. Has he been faking that genuine smile for seven years? When did it change? What did Armie miss? Was it just for Armie’s sake? Timmy’s not happy.

There is a woodpecker on one of the trees just outside the house. Armie closes his eyes, drops his head, tries to drown out the noises of the silence; feels his teeth grinding.

“You’re getting angry again.”

Armie opens his eyes, there’s moisture in them. He looks at the man standing before him. He is not angry. They don’t know each other, do they? “Am I the reason you’re not happy?”

“It’s a chore being with you.”

The moisture escapes its barrier. How pathetic. Armie gently puts the basket on the floor. “What can I do to stop you?”

“Nothing.”

…

Armie is silent. He sits on the bed and watches Timmy going into the closet, living room, study, and coming back into the bedroom, deleting his part from his life, erasing every memory, every sign of his presence and, mangling them, squashing them all in his suitcases. A bag is open beside him on the bed where Timmy is making room for a grey sweater that was initially Armie’s. Timmy doesn’t remember. But Timmy liked it, so Armie hasn’t worn it in years, and now it is Timmy’s and he is taking it away. He stares at it, doesn’t dare to touch it, tries to remember what it used to feel like against his skin. He can’t. So he looks up at Timmy. His face blank. He always does handle everything better than Armie does.

“You gonna keep staring at me?”

There was a time when the tone of this question would be different. Loving, almost tacky, asked with an indulgent smile. Now Timmy feels observed. 

Armie finds his green fuel and takes it out into the veranda to smoke. Watches the smoke clouding before his eyes, making it hard to see the perfect twilight hue that the sky has adorned for a moment.

“Really?”

Comes the condescending voice from the doorway.

Armie does not turn around. “What’s the point in stopping?”

“You realize this attitude is why this is happening?”

His vision is clouded again. He gulps down the bile that gathers in his mouth. Clutches the railing tight. He does not want to fall apart again. “What can I do?”

He knows Timmy is approaching him. He doesn’t want him to. He is only closing the distance to say goodbye. He comes to stand beside him, leans in to take a last look at him. But Armie turns the other way. He doesn’t want him to see the cloud in his eyes.

“I’m gonna stay with my parents for a while… before I find another place.”

“Take the car.”

“Giullian is here to pick me up.”

How easily he could give him up.

Timmy plucks the rolled weed from between Armie’s fingers and simply drops it. Armie watches the ember fly and then land on the porch below.

“Stop this.” Timmy stands on his tiptoe to place a tender kiss on Armie’s temple. “Call me if you need anything.”

Armie wants to turn around and embrace him, cling to him, and sob against his shoulder. Tell him that he can scold him all day, that he can call him a drunkard and an addict, can give him hell for his anger issues, for his fucking gluttony, his lingering gaze at supple wrists and full busts, he can blame his stifled fantasies for always standing between them, he can call him names, and Armie won’t mind, won’t ever mind again.

He holds it in. Grinds his teeth, holds down the storm in his chest. From above, he watches Timmy climb into the car and drive away. Only then he lets the storm out into the clear, dying sky.

* * *

**November 18, 2020**

He is woken up in the middle of the night by the shrill ringtone of his phone. He doesn’t put it on silent during the night anymore. What’s the point? It was always for Timmy. He was a light sleeper. A single ding from a notification would wake him up and he would be grumpy the next day.

Armie scrambles to get to his phone on the bedside table and picks it up.

There is silence. Silence and a sob that seems to have pulled all the air out of the pair of lungs that are lodged in his burning chest. He must have a runny nose as he always does because he is breathing through his mouth. His sinusitis must be killing him.

Armie breathes. “I miss you, too.”

Only his name echoes from the other side.

“Come back.”

Silence.

“Come back. I haven’t touched anything. You can just put everything back where they were. Everything is the same here.”

“But everything will be the same.”

Armie wants to say that he will change, now that he knows what’s at stake, he will try his best. But he has made similar promises before. And it’s the little things that always comes between people. Things that you say you can live with as long as you are together. They become unbearable, the bane of your existence. The imbalance of power, the friend that one doesn’t like, the parent the other can’t stand, the arguments that never go anywhere, the things one has to explain every day that the other doesn’t care to remember. Does love reside among these? Or is it merely the habit of living in the other’s life?

“It gets better.”

Armie doesn’t believe the words that leave his mouth. But it seems true with everything else. Besides, he doesn’t know how much longer he can bear to listen to Timmy cry.

“I fucked someone.”

Armie stares at the ceiling, tiny drops of light dance there, he doesn’t know of their source. “When?”

“Last night.”

“Not what you were expecting?”

“Fuck, Armie…”

“Doesn’t feel right? You’ve been with me for too long. You’ll get used to other people.”

“I’m not happy.”

A drop of tear slides down the side of his face. “Come back. Everything is the same”

Early the next morning he finds Timmy loitering in the front yard.

Armie descends the stairs and stands on the porch, his hair sticking out in every direction, eyes red, breath still foul with last night’s vodka. Everything is the same. Nothing has changed. Timmy walks towards him and buries his face in the crook of his neck, wrapping his arms around him and finally breathing. Sad people have the tendency of unknowingly deriving fugitive pleasures from inflicting sorrow upon others. Sorrow, blame, guilt. Chaos, disquiet, and malaise. The unfortunate souls fail to realize that it does nothing to soothe their own wounds.

Armie takes him in his arms and breathes into his hair as the wind troubles the outspread branches. Dark moments don’t need words. And silence is enough.


End file.
